Dear Thing (34 page)

Posie had started crying. Romily stopped searching for her phone and that text and gathered Posie up into her arms. Posie turned her face into Romily’s neck.

‘Was it because Auntie Claire had to look after me in secret when you went out with Jarvis?’ Posie asked, her words muffled. ‘Is it my fault?’

‘It is one hundred per cent not your fault,’ said Romily. ‘One thousand per cent.’

‘You can’t have one thousand per cent,’ said Posie.

‘You can in this instance.’ Romily squeezed her eyes tight shut, keeping her own tears inside. She was causing her own daughter pain, now. Again.

‘Let’s go home,’ said Jarvis.

‘Has this happened before?’ Jarvis draped the tea towel over the side of the sink and came to join Romily on the sofa. He had made them all beans on toast with what he insisted was his special mystery ingredient (it was ketchup) and lost to Posie twice at Scrabble. It was enough to raise a smile before she went to bed.

‘She’s always been a little on-and-off about kids her own age. It’s probably my fault; I never took her to playgroups or activities or any of those things. We just hung out. And she loves playing at Ben and Claire’s.’

‘But she’s never completely shut off before?’

‘She’s never completely shut off.’ Romily bit her lip. ‘She’s learned that from me lately.’

‘And Ben and Claire splitting up?’

‘Surprise, surprise. That’s also my fault.’

Jarvis waited.

‘I wrote some letters. To the baby. It was Claire’s idea, so the baby would know it was wanted from the beginning, I suppose so it would have some sort of insight when it was older about why we did everything this roundabout, weird way. Anyway, I wasn’t into the idea at first but I found that it was useful. It felt good to get all of my feelings out on paper. I’d been bottling everything up for so long.’

‘Tell me you didn’t write about being in love with Ben.’

‘I did. I’ve— it’s not been easy, Jarvis. I didn’t think I’d feel anything about this baby. But I do. I know it’s not mine to
keep. But … well, when I wrote the letters, sometimes I could pretend for a little bit.’

‘What a bloody stupid thing to do.’

‘I know it. I really know it.’

‘And of course Ben found them.’

‘No, it was Claire.’

‘Why would that split them up?’

‘I don’t know.’ She got up, fished her phone out of her bag and turned it on. Almost immediately, it started vibrating and pinging with messages. ‘Claire and I had a huge row, but that was between us. I didn’t mean for them to split up. I only wrote all of that stuff down for myself. I pretended it was letters to the baby, but it wasn’t really, not after the first few. It wasn’t part of a scheme or anything.’

‘I never really thought you were trying to steal Ben. But I stand by my original opinion, that you’ve let yourself into a whole hell of a mess, Romily.’

‘I’m very good at making mistakes.’ There it was, in the read messages. It was the only text from Ben at all, although there were several messages from Jarvis.

Been waiting for you to get in touch. Hope you are all right. Have moved out, got flat in London St for now. C unhappy and angry, doesn’t want to see me. I’m worried it’s over. So sorry for what I have done. Can talk when you are ready. B

There seemed no reason not to show it to Jarvis, so she passed the phone to him. ‘He didn’t know he was texting Posie,’ he said. Then: ‘He must be staying in those serviced apartments in London Street. I looked into them.’

‘You did?’

‘A season train ticket is cheaper. And I thought you probably didn’t want me in your neighbourhood.’

Ben was in her neighbourhood. Less than a mile from her
flat. If he’d moved out right after Claire had found the letters, he’d been very close to her, geographically, for the past several days.

Had he stayed away from her because he was so angry with her? It seemed likely, but then in his text he said he was sorry. And that he’d talk when she wanted to.

‘I don’t understand any of it,’ Romily said. ‘Why would Claire kick him out because I’m in love with him? It’s not his fault.’

‘I’m not going to comment on that,’ said Jarvis. ‘Much as I would like to. The important thing is Posie. You can’t shut down, Romily.’

‘I know.’

‘You might be able to escape into your insect world, but it’s not good for a little girl.’

‘I did it when I was a little girl,’ said Romily. ‘It meant I didn’t have to think about missing my mum.’

‘I’ve been doing something similar for eight years.’

His words startled her. She met his gaze. The blue eyes that were like Posie’s, the face she’d imagined, for that split second that one night, kissing again.

‘I can help you,’ said Jarvis. ‘But you have to let me.’

‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Yes.’

SONNING HAD THE
scent of hedgerows and woodsmoke, pollen and cut grass and rain and traffic, wet thatch and warm stone and manure on the fields and the distant smell of baking. But there was something missing, every day, every breath. Claire tuned out the missing part so she barely noticed, until she came back to Suffolk and there it was: salty, fetid, fecund.

Her parents lived in a white detached Georgian house on the outskirts of town. The sea air blew up on the breeze into the garden. She had breathed it in her cot as a baby, brought home sand and seaweed and shells as a child.

She parked the car down the lane in a layby; the sea glistened in the distance between gaps left by branches empty of leaves. She should probably drive right up to the house. But she wanted a few minutes to breathe and to walk. To be able to change her mind if she wanted to. She hadn’t called her parents before she set off from Sonning. She hadn’t talked to them at all in weeks. They might not be home; they might be busy and not pleased to see her. It had never been precisely stated, that their grown-up children should ring before
coming for a visit, but nevertheless Claire always did. It showed consideration.

But this morning she had had enough of emptiness, the empty house that the central heating didn’t seem to warm. She wanted to breathe in the thing she was missing. She wanted to go home.

Winter sunshine warmed her shoulders and cheeks, and leaves rustled underfoot as she walked. The house came into view around the corner of the hedges. All of the flowerbeds had been tidied up and winter jasmine blossomed against the wall. The car was gone, though that didn’t mean both of them were out. Claire paused, staying behind the hedge so she couldn’t be seen through the windows, and gazed at the house where she’d grown up.

It had been warm and bright. It had echoed with children. She remembered being tucked into bed by her mother, sung songs by her father. There was always a kettle singing on the Aga, always something delicious cooking, flowers in vases all year round. Claire and Helen and Ian had always felt safe at home, always loved bringing friends there to see how welcoming it was, how cheerful and neat and tidy. Each child had their own place. Helen was good at sport, Ian was good at school, Claire was good at music but really she was good at everything, anything she could do to please her parents whom she loved so much. Especially her mother, who was always at the centre.

Even now that they had grown up it was the same, every Christmas, at weekends and holidays. The house was full of food, warmth, beautiful objects. Sometimes Claire picked up glossy magazines about home and entertaining, and in their slick promotion of spending and buying, consuming and making, she glimpsed the ideal they were trying to capture. It
was the ideal her own mother had created for her children.

When Claire and Ben had bought the house in Sonning, Claire had pictured it exactly the same. It would be a haven, a warm place for her family. It would give their children the glowing, loving start that Claire herself had had. Idyllic and perfect. Always there, never changing, the mother at school pick-up and drop-off, homemade cookies waiting with creamy milk, kisses and plasters for small injuries, stories at bedtime.

She worked hard at creating what her mother had made with seemingly no effort at all. Sometimes she didn’t get to bed until long after Ben did. And all for nothing. A house with too many spare rooms. No husband. No child.

Only herself, empty-handed, coming home.

She should go back to Sonning. Her parents might not mean her to, but she would only compare her failure with their success. She would only look for wisps of
I told you so
in their sympathy. It was so much safer to pretend that everything was perfect.

But it would be such a relief not to have to pretend at all.

Claire stood half in the hedge, poised to go or to stay, when she saw a silhouette pass inside the front window and caught a glimpse of pale hair.

Suddenly there was no choice any more. Perfection didn’t matter. She needed the kiss and the cuddle, the soothing and her mother’s arms. Claire ran, her shoes slipping on the gravel and grass, her hands outstretched in front of her. She reached the door and she wrenched it open and she raced to the front room where her mother stood in a house-dress and slippers, humming. Stacks of ironing lined the sofa and the chairs. The light slanting through the window caught the colour of her hair, once blonde, now pale grey.

‘Mum,’ said Claire and her mother looked up, startled.
Her face immediately melted into a smile. No surprise, no questions, only joy. She put down the iron.

‘Darling!’ she said, and opened her arms.

When Claire’s father came home from the shops, her mother sent him out again to the pub, telling him that he should come back much later with fish and chips. They left the ironing undone and they settled in the kitchen. Everyone settled in Louisa Hardy’s kitchen with the big farmhouse sink, the Aga radiating heat, the fresh flowers and vegetables and the scarred wooden table with its bright cloth. It was very much like Claire’s kitchen. It seemed like the correct way for a kitchen to be. Her mother took some tea cakes out of the freezer and they toasted them and went through several pots of tea and more tissues as Claire told her mother everything that had happened. Romily’s accident, Ben’s protectiveness, all the time he’d spent working and with Romily instead of her. The photograph, the letters, the way she had sent Ben away.

Louisa held Claire’s hand the entire time, running her soft thumb over the back of it. Claire talked and talked and talked, surprised at how she could say so much when she thought she had been empty.

When Claire had run out of words, her mother sighed.

‘What are you going to do about the baby, love?’

‘You said it was a bad idea. I didn’t listen to you.’

‘I take no satisfaction in being right.’ She squeezed Claire’s hand.

‘You weren’t the only one. I was really worried myself. But then I got to know Romily. I … liked her.’

‘You’re a good person, Claire. You like people.’

‘Then how come I don’t have any friends?’

‘You have friends.’

‘Not really. I haven’t opened myself up to anyone in so long, Mum. I couldn’t bear to be around children. I’ve even found it difficult to be around Helen.’

‘Oh, sweetheart. I know.’

‘Getting pregnant was always the unobtainable goal. For years I thought of nothing else. I don’t know what else to think of.’

‘Think of yourself,’ her mother said firmly. ‘A baby doesn’t stay a baby for ever. It grows up and moves away and you want that to happen, of course, but then all you have is yourself. When you and Ian and Helen moved out, I was lost. I didn’t know who I was any more. Your father missed you too, of course, but he had his office, his hobbies. I didn’t have anything of my own. All I had was you and this house. The house was empty, and you had your own lives.’

Claire stared at her mother. This was something new, like the not-yet-ironed sheets and the request for fish and chips. ‘I … I didn’t know. I’m sorry.’

Louisa fluttered her free hand in the air. ‘It’s got better. I’m still in the process. But Claire darling, this is what I’m trying to tell you. A baby isn’t a solution. It isn’t something you have because you think it will make you happy. It will keep you busy, but that’s not the same as happy. You have to want the baby for itself, not because it’s something that’s expected of you or something that you think you need. I’ve watched you pining and pining for so long. It can make you forget the good things you have.’

‘What good things have I got, now?’

‘You’re a wonderful woman. A gifted musician and a talented teacher. I’m so proud of you, Claire.’

‘You have to say that. You’re my mother.’

‘And that’s why I know you better than anyone else.’ She lifted Claire’s hand and kissed it.

‘But why did she do it?’ Claire asked, as if her mother could give her the answer. ‘How could Romily offer to get pregnant with Ben’s baby if she was in love with him? Why did she pretend to be my friend?’

‘Do you think that she did it deliberately, to make Ben care for her?’

‘In her letters she said she didn’t want to be in love with him. But I can’t believe that there wasn’t an element of that. It doesn’t make any sense to me, otherwise.’ Claire hit the table with her free hand. ‘She’s been playing with all of our lives, intentionally or not.’

‘What do you think is the best thing for this baby?’

Claire opened her mouth to say
Me
. But then she thought again.

If she were fair, if she put her own feelings aside and faced the things that her despair had been telling her, she had to admit that Romily wasn’t a bad mother. An unconventional mother, maybe, but Posie was happy and secure and Romily loved her. Romily was experienced, too, which Claire was not. And Romily did love this baby. She had made it. It was part of her, in a way that it would never be part of Claire.

Not long ago, Claire would have said that it was one hundred per cent better for a child to have two loving parents rather than just one. But what if she and Ben never got back together? Did she want to be a single mother?
Could
she be a single mother? And even if Romily stuck to their agreement, despite her feelings, would Claire be able to take Ben back purely so that they could be parents?